He ran a hand over his face. He needed to go. The urge to toss her upon his desk and make her his mistress in truth was rapidly overwhelming his moral fortitude.
“Right.” He pivoted on his heel and retreated to his desk. Once there, he dug the small pieces of metal out of his waistcoat pocket and piled them on the oak surface. “Your pins.” He cleared his throat. “Fifteen minutes. Then we’ll leave for the warehouse.”
As he stalked past her and opened the door, he noted her bewilderment. Inwardly, he cursed himself. He should explain, but he couldn’t stay any longer.
Even if he could, what would he say? I kissed you because you vex me as no other woman ever has. Now, I must either leave or take you fully, for I am every bit the beast you accused me of being.
Aye, that would delight the prim Augusta Widmore. To be deflowered by a beast upon his oak desk. In his gaming club, no less.
Next to his office was a chamber where he often slept. While he washed and changed, his mind churned over the quandary of Augusta.
She’d never been kissed. Not by Glassington. Not by any of the gents in Hampshire. Only by him.
Which made her fixation upon Glassington more of a mystery. Why would a young earl promise marriage to a country spinster he’d never kissed? Augusta was an extraordinary woman, Reaver acknowledged. Intelligent, determined, and astonishingly sensual. But most men would fail to appreciate those qualities.
Most men obviously had, given her unmarried status.
Reaver glanced down to where a violent erection still raged. He should stop thinking about her, if only for decency’s sake. Except that he couldn’t.
Hours earlier, his intention had been to rid himself of her. No. That was a lie. He’d wished to win their battle. And perhaps savor her reactions as he pushed her sensibilities to the breaking point.
But now …
Aye, now he tried to imagine letting her go.
To Glassington.
Who would make her his countess and take her virginity and plant his son in her belly.
He caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirror. Bloody, bleeding hell. He looked murderous. Shaking his head, he turned his back and yanked a fresh shirt over his head.
She did not belong with that useless lordling. So, what compelled her to pursue him, risking ruin by sneaking into Reaver’s club, waging a battle of wills to rival Waterloo?
The answer came immediately—Phoebe.
Her sister was ill. Severely, according to Shaw. If Augusta sought to provide a physician’s long-term care and a permanent home for Phoebe, she could not marry the girl off, for what man would want a sickly wife? Instead, being the clever creature she was, she would seek a husband for herself, preferably one of means.
Glassington had spent time in Hampshire with friends during the previous summer. That must have been her plan—to secure the loftiest nob of her acquaintance, and in so doing, secure a future for herself and Phoebe. Glassington may have agreed to a match initially, then cried off when he realized Augusta wished to bring her sister into their household.
It was the only answer that fit all the pieces he had. The problem was that he had so few pieces. He needed to understand her connection to Glassington. The unknowns were gnawing at him like a hound with a boot.
Quickly, he finished dressing, tying on a hated cravat and shrugging into a green tailcoat. Then he went down to the first floor to find Shaw.
“Reaver,” his majordomo exclaimed from behind an overpriced desk as Reaver strode into his office. “Just the man I was hoping to—”
“I need you to get a message to Drayton.”
A frown was Shaw’s only reply. He laid down his pen, sat back in his chair, and folded his arms.
“Send him back to Hampshire. I need to know about Augusta Widmore’s connection to Glassington. Everything. I want every bloody detail.”
Shaw gave him a peculiar smile and briefly dropped his gaze to his desk. “Why not ask Frelling?”
“He is occupied.”
“With?”
“Interviewing staff.”
“For?”
“My household.”
“Ah.”
“What does that mean?”
A black brow lifted. “Oh, nothing. So, you wish me to send Drayton back to Hampshire.”
“That’s what I said.”
Shaw’s head tilted. “And you are wearing a cravat.”
“Aye. What of it?”
“A bit unusual, that’s all. Going somewhere interesting?”
Frowning, Reaver felt the itch begin around his neck. “To collect a debt.” Before Shaw could ask the obvious next question, Reaver answered, “From Thomas Beauchamp.”
“The cabinet-maker. I’ve been to his warehouse. Impressive.”
Reaver grunted. “Just send Drayton the message. I need answers within the week.”
“Consider it done. Did Miss Widmore have a pleasant visit with her sister?”
“Probably.”
“You don’t know?”
“The younger one doesn’t approve of our agreement. She assailed me the moment I entered, so I left.”
“Hmm.” A strange mix of affection and amusement overtook Shaw’s features. “She is most discerning, Miss Phoebe.”
Reaver tugged at his cravat, running a finger between the cloth and his neck. “I shall be gone the rest of the day.”
Shaw’s grin widened. “Evening, too?”
“Bloody hell, man, if you want to say I’m dancing to Miss Widmore’s tune, then cease the daft questions and have done with it!”
Shaw didn’t bother to make the point. He didn’t have to. His response came in the form of laughter, which mocked Reaver as he left his partner’s office in disgust.
~~*
CHAPTER TEN
“Reason Number Seven: A lady possesses an instinct for creating pleasurable surroundings which offer a gentleman comfort and ease. A man possesses an instinct for enjoying said surroundings without acknowledgment of their origin.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter enumerating the benefits of acquiring a wife.
It took long minutes of trembling and breathing before Augusta managed to shove away from the wall. Her legs were the consistency of blancmange, her lips swollen and tingly.
But neither oddity compared to the chaos in her head.
She’d never known such pleasure. Never suspected it was possible to want a man until nothing would do but having him inside her.
If this was what Phoebe had felt for Lord Glassington, it was little wonder she’d lost her wits along with her innocence.
At last, Augusta gathered her senses and crossed to his desk. She eyed the neat pile of pins beside her bonnet. He’d kept them in his pocket.
Slowly, a grin curved her lips.
He hadn’t tossed them carelessly on the floor. He’d collected them one by one and tucked them into his pocket while he pleasured her with his lips and his … well, his manhood she supposed, though she would have sworn such size was impossible.